


I Do What I Must

by Stormkpr



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Pre-Season 1, You know just general Barca/Pietros love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28505559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormkpr/pseuds/Stormkpr
Summary: A series of Barca/Pietros one-shots.Chapter One:Pietros is seriously injured at the ludus and facing constant pain from his wounds. He fears his standing inside this place and fears that Barca will grow weary of ensuring that he is cared for. He struggles to face his worries over what the future might bring, not quite understanding how much he is loved.Chapter Two:My take on how Barca/Pietros first got together!Chapter Three:What happens when Barca misbehaves and Doctore decides to punish Pietros instead? And what would happen if Barca decided to tell the truth about his life and who he is?Chapter Four:Early in the relationship, Pietros disagrees with something he sees Barca do. Pietros ponders his options.
Relationships: Barca/Pietros
Comments: 38
Kudos: 43
Collections: Spartacus ▶ Barca / Pietros





	1. Chapter One: Courage

_T/W – Similar to on the show. Coarse language, mentions of sex (sometimes also in a coarse fashion), and mentions of past events containing non-con._

_One-shot for now, but I might write more Barca/Pietros one-shots and add them on here._

***

Pietros knows not how long he has been fading in and out of consciousness. He only knows that now his head is clear and the pain in his side is unbearable. It is sharp and unrelenting.

He blinks and begins to recall events that transpired, though the number of days since past remains mystery. It was a fight in the ludus, between two gladiators. Or perhaps more than two gladiators. Pietros thinks it had to do with gambling and coin lost. He believes that Rhaskos and Pollux were involved, possibly Lydon as well. Their argument escalated from shouting to shoving to combat within the span of mere seconds. During his years in the ludus, Pietros has always known well the need to steer clear of such fighting but somehow on that hot afternoon, he wasn’t fast enough. He was in the way and wound up taking a blow intended for someone else, and then being thrown halfway across the eating area so that one gladiator could advance upon another. He does, now, remember hearing a distinctive crack.

Pietros remembers little else since then. He takes another breath and has to stifle a gasp at the pain. And then he hears a voice.

“He is awake! Medicus, get your worthless hands back in here!”

It is Barca’s voice. Pietros turns his head. Eyesight blurry from the pain, Pietros can make out Barca’s form. It dawns on Pietros that Barca has been stationed here for a while. He remembers that a strong hand held his from time to time, and that a solid, silent presence was often near his bed.

Then he passes out again.

***

Unbeknownst to Pietros, almost two more days have since passed. He is fully conscious now and able to take in his surroundings, able to speak and understand. Medicus says that he believes at least one of his ribs is cracked, and so he has bound them tightly. And right now Medicus, Pietros, and Barca all appear to agree on one thing: Pietros has been given so many herbs and other substances for the pain that his body will require a rest from it.

“Just water. Take some more of it, boy,” Medicus says, tilting a mug at Pietros’ lips. The room where so many gladiators have been treated smells of iron, blood, and potent substances.

Despite being propped up with pillows, Pietros struggles to gain position where he can take a few sips. Gods, when will this pain dissipate??

Footsteps are heard, and Barca reenters the Medicus. “Hold him up yourself, you lazy shitfuck! He can’t drink without help.”

“I have labored at your boy’s side every waking moment since he found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am in such need of food and rest that your threats no longer scare me, Beast of Carthage.”

Pietros is surprised to hear Medicus speak in such a way to Barca.

“I fill your purse, you have been compensated well,” Barca replies, irritation in his voice. He audibly takes a breath, and Pietros hears something he himself is acquainted with: Barca moving from irritation to softness. “But an exhausted Medicus is of no help either. Go,” he commands.

Pietros watches Medicus eagerly scramble out of the room. At last he is conscious and alone with Barca. He wishes that every movement and every breath did not hurt so; otherwise he would sit up and fling arms around Barca. Instead he can only remain lying upon the bed.

Barca takes a few steps closer. He assists him in drinking more water, holding Pietros’ back with one hand and the cup with the other. The water is cool and refreshing, though even the act of swallowing brings yet more pain.

“I would clean you now,” Barca then says.

Pietros takes note of the cloths Barca holds in his hands, and the full basin of water next to the bed. He forces a smile. “Our Roman masters would not approve of even a mere slave going for so long absent bath.”

As Barca dips a cloth into the water, Pietros feels his heart race. “My job is to bathe you,” Pietros adds.

“Indeed,” Barca says, straightforwardly. “This morning it was Zahur who shaved my back, and he lacks your touch. I batted him away when he tried to put my hair into order.” Barca’s eyes travel across Pietros’ body. “I would start with your face and work my way downwards.”

As Barca begins applying the cloth, Pietros is unafraid. He knows what many inside the ludus do not, that Barca’s hands can be gentle and kind when he wants them to be. Barca applies them to Pietros now with the same delicate skill he used not long ago to tape the broken wing of a bird, as if Barca fully understands the pain Pietros is in and the need to put aside all of his rough tendencies.

“Gratitude,” Pietros says quietly.

Barca only nods in response. By the time he reaches Pietros’ feet, he says, “I gave Rhaskos and Pollux a lesson, reminding them to be more careful next time they brawl. A lesson they will not soon forget.”

Pietros smiles. He wishes the pain wasn’t so intense so he could just savor the feel of Barca washing his feet.

Heavy footsteps are heard in the doorway. “Barca!” Doctore’s voice rings out, and Pietros wishes he could snap to command at the sound of it. He has spent almost every waking hour for years anticipating Doctore’s needs, and now he can scarcely move. “We have allowed you much leeway over the past few days. Fall to the ludus and spar with Crixus!”

“Yes, Doctore,” Barca replies. He looks down at Pietros and smiles. Pietros returns the smile.

As the minutes pass, Pietros listens and becomes attuned to the sounds from outdoors. The clang of wooden swords, the shouting and taunting of men, Doctore’s voice ringing out when needed. Pietros enjoys listening to what he can, as he can do little else aside lay upon his back.

After a bit more time, Pietros hears more footsteps enter the room. Disappointed, he can tell easily that they do not belong to Barca. His disappointment turns to a chilly feeling when he hears Ashur’s snake-like voice.

“He spends precious coin to pay for your herbs and he risks Dominus’ ire by taking time away from his training. He sleeps inside this room. And earlier I see with my own eyes your body being washed by the Beast of Carthage himself. Your skills at cock sucking must be as legendary as your ability to take cock up ass.”

Pietros lets Ashur’s words fall. What is the man doing here?

A reply finds its way to Pietros’ lips. “Wouldn’t you love to find out? Of course you know what Barca will do to you if you place even one finger upon me.” He wishes he could see Ashur, but unable to turn onto his side absent pain, Pietros can only continue to look up at the ceiling.

“No, my tastes are towards cunt, not cock,” Ashur answers simply. “I only wanted to look at Barca’s pet and see how he is getting on. And let you know how many tongues have been wagging over the coin Barca has spent on your treatment. It is rare to see a house slave so pampered when he cannot work.”

As Ashur speaks, Pietros combs through his mind for a suitable tactic. He decides to try surprising Ashur and forcing a new course. “Did your family have slaves, Ashur? Before you were brought here?”

Ashur makes a clucking noise. “You know I prefer not to share talk of my days before the ludus.” And then with a pause, “May your recovery be fast, Pietros.”

With that, Ashur is gone. If nothing else, his visit did serve as distraction from the unending pain.

Several hours later, two female house slaves are led into the room, and they assist Pietros in eating and relieving himself. Barca comes in twice, the second time with Medicus. “Stay by his side until the torches are lit for night,” Barca orders, and again Pietros has to assume that coin has changed hands because Medicus is unusually attentive. He inspects the bandages covering Pietros’ ribs. At some point after that, Pietros returns to sleep.

***

He wakes up at some point during the night. The pain. It is truly like a knife wound. Sharp, stabbing, and impossible to escape. If only it would end. Pietros remembers his mother and the gentle way she would hold him when he needed it. He hopes she lives on still at Solonius’ villa though treated better than she was at the time they parted. Thoughts of her lately bring more comfort than grief, though the sting of separation remains forever.

He reminds himself that he cannot dwell on this. Every slave here has weathered untold losses. Barca was forced to slaughter hundreds of his own people before being set against his father. Barca rarely speaks of him and Pietros suspects they were never close, but still – a crime against nature to be forced to kill one’s own father. Barca fell from being chieftain’s son to slave. A decorated gladiator, yes but still mere slave. Loss must be simply endured. Pietros latches onto that thought. The physical pain is like the grief and there is nothing for it but to let it run through your body. And survive it. He has heard Doctore tell gladiators to “embrace the pain” before they are whipped.

_I do what I must._ Pietros remembers that Barca once spoke the words to him before leaving on one of Batiatus’ errands. He silently tells himself to take the words to heart.

“Do you wake?”

Pietros startles slightly at the sound of Barca’s voice. He had wondered if perhaps his lover was there inside the room with him, but the darkness of the night and his inability to easily turn his body made it impossible for him to determine.

“I would see you sleep in proper bed rather than chair,” Pietros answers.

“I have slept upon worse. And your voice cracks with thirst. I will provide water.”

Barca gently helps him sit up and presses cup to lips. He waits for Pietros to drink his fill before helping lower him back down. Barca then remains standing next to the bed, one hand lightly upon Pietros’ arm.

Pietros is overcome for a moment. That the gladiator legend would take the time to play the role of nursemaid, and to do so when his own waking hours are spent in intense, exhausting activity under blazing sun. That he would indeed sacrifice coin to save him, when any other houseboy here would kill to become Barca’s. When, as most gladiators have certainly already reminded Barca, he could easily find another hole.

Emotion takes hold of Pietros’ tongue and the words are out before he can stop them. “I love you, Barca.”

It does appear he has knocked the gladiator off his feet. Barca groans and then squeezes his arm. “Go back to sleep,” he commands, and then returns to his chair.

Pietros does not regret the words.

***

When Pietros can stand and walk, Medicus officially releases him. It is midday, a particularly scorching one, and a few other gladiators stand outside the medical area, watching. They have finished eating and have not much else to do until reprieve from the heat and Doctore’s orders to assemble once more.

As Medicus faces both Pietros and Barca, he orders, “Two bites of this herb per day – no more. No carrying anything heavy.” He then points a finger at Barca, “And keep your hands off of him for a few days. Preferably a week. He’s still in pain and doesn’t need the Beast of Carthage’s paws on him.”

“I should end your worthless life just for that,” Barca says to Medicus.

Pietros observes that Barca is in typical form, as he has been for the past few days. Pietros thinks perhaps his confession of love pushed Barca further than he had wanted. Or perhaps it is due to the gladiators milling about the doorway that Barca adds, “I’ll fuck him whenever I want to.” A few of the men cheer and make lewd remarks.

Pietros decides to pay the remark no mind. He has heard worse from Barca’s mouth. The gladiator has a reputation to maintain. And besides, the pain from his cracked ribs is still intense, still making him gasp for breath at times. He will not let brutish words hurt him.

For the remainder of the day, Pietros performs what tasks he is able. At first, the pain is the same whether he is walking or standing or sitting. He feels confident the first few times he picks up items that need transport. But as the day wears on, his exhaustion grows and the pain intensifies. He sees Barca and Doctore exchange a word with Zahur, the other porter. Pietros is ordered back to the cell he shares with Barca for the reminder of the day.

“I will tend the birds,” he tells Barca, before taking his leave.

***

Nightfall brings relief from the heat, though not from the pain. Pietros strains to hear the sounds of the gladiators winding down their training for the day, and is happy when Barca’s return is imminent.

Beds inside gladiator cells are small, even for a decorated gladiator like Barca. When the couple first took up together, Pietros slept on a mat upon the floor. He was used to sleeping upon floor mats. During his entire life, he had only ever touched a bed during those occasions when the brother of his previous Dominus had visited and helped himself to Pietros’ body. And then here in the ludus with Barca, Pietros had again touched a bed – or more accurately, his hands and knees had touched it. He would then sleep upon mat while Barca slept upon bed. However, somewhere along the way, he began to share Barca’s bed with him during slumber, not just sex. Pietros believes it began one night when Barca had bid him to lie upon his side and had entered him that way. Afterwards, both men had simply fallen asleep. Pietros thinks that from that night forward, the bed was shared. He then corrects himself with a slight smile, a memory suddenly inserting itself. There were words broken upon the subject once. Pietros had made as if to get up from the bed once they were finished fucking but Barca had reached for him and groaned, “Stay.” Yes. Since that one-word command had been issued, the bed had belonged to both. It was a tight fit requiring both men on their sides, but it sufficed.

But now Pietros cannot find comfort lying upon either side. He has found that flat upon his back is the least painful position of all. This presents problem. If Pietros remains upon his back, it will not be possible for Barca to fit upon the bed as well.

The door to the cell opens, and Barca steps through. Pietros tries to sit up, but Barca gestures for him to return to his back.

“Did you take herb yet?” Barca asks.

Pietros shakes his head, so Barca reaches for it on the shelf and hands it to him. Pietros does as Medicus instructed and begins to chew the herb. He reminds himself of his duties. He reminds himself of the probable explanation for Barca wanting his pain diminished now.

“Could you take the mat from the shelf and set it upon floor?” Pietros asks. “I will take to it tonight so that the bed is yours.”

“Nonsense,” Barca responds. “You will not sleep upon the floor. I would do it instead.”

Wincing a bit, Pietros counters, “If anyone happens by and looks in, I will not have them see the Beast of Carthage removed from his own bed by mere house slave.”

“Anyone who happens by and looks in can go to the underworld and suck on their gods’ cocks for all I care,” Barca says. “Rest. Recover. What I said before in Medicus was but swagger. I would sleep upon the mat. It is far better than many places on which I’ve slept.” Barca retrieves the mat from its place upon the shelf and begins to spread it up on the ground.

“Barca,” Pietros begins softly. “I think there is still a way that we may….take our pleasure. What if I turn towards my side and you stand by the bed? I could take you into my mouth.”

“No. I saw you about the ludus today and you still can barely breathe absent pain.”

“I believe we could try it,” Pietros insists. “I do fear that this bed is too low and you stand too tall. But the bed inside the Medicus is elevated and it might serve purpose. We could assemble there.”

Barca walks to the edge of the bed and squats down. He lightly touches a hand to Pietros’ cheek. “We will fuck again when you are recovered. I told you, I did not mean what I said earlier. The other men enjoy hearing such nonsense.” He adds softly, his voice rich, “You know many of them envy me.”

Pietros smiles. “Every house slave within the Roman empire would envy me!”

Barca chuckles deeply. “Cease!” he says, still smiling. He brushes Pietros’ lips with his own, a kiss as feather-soft as one of the birds’ wings. “And sleep. I will do my best tomorrow to remind Doctore that you require rest and that Zahur is capable.”

“He looked as if run ragged.”

“Do not worry over him.”

Barca then settles down atop the mat and both men fall to sleep.

***

Pietros wakes in the middle of the night. The pain. Again. It feels as sharp and unrelenting as it did days ago, fierce and undiminished. The stabbing sensations do not allow him to return to sleep. Pietros can only lie back and marvel at the power and intensity of the pain.

Terror follows the pain. Fear at the notion that these pains will never depart, thus rendering Pietros useless. Everyone knows what happens to a slave who can’t work. How long will Barca continue to protect him, to spend coin to see that he is treated and not sent to the mines? Pietros’ forehead is damp and his heart races along with the thrumming of the pain.

Pietros hears the birds fluttering, and one of them scratches the ground of its cage. He remembers that Barca began to keep them in honor of his fallen lover, Auctus. A gladiator. A strong man who needed no protection. Pietros’ mind continues to churn. The birds might hint at something else as well. The fact that the Beast of Carthage does _love_. He does care for others despite his reputation, and despite the fact that he could not return Pietros’ declaration of love when he gave it days ago.

“You are not asleep.”

Barca’s words interrupt Pietros’ thoughts. As always his voice is deep, the words spoken with the ghost of an accent harkening to the faraway land in which he was born.

“I am not,” Pietros acknowledges. It is strange hearing Barca’s voice from the floor. The cell is tiny, but still – Barca lies upon the floor now, and that feels simply odd and wrong.

“Is it the pain? Do thoughts trouble you?” Barca asks.

“The only thought troubling me is the fact that I interrupted your sleep and took your bed,” Pietros whispers back. “Please take to rest, Barca.”

Barca is quiet for a moment. “Sleep escapes me as well,” he admits.

“I would switch places with you and see you upon the bed in my place.”

Barca grunts in reply. Pietros knows that the gladiator does not like to discuss a matter once it has already been decided.

So instead Pietros breaks different words. “These days since I have been injured….they cause me to admire you even more than I did before,” he begins. “Your courage and strength. You fight in arena and in practice despite constant injuries. Your injuries have always been far deeper and more serious than mine, and despite them you have had to fight for your very life over and over again. The courage that must require! Me, I am but coward. The pain from this wound alone renders me so afraid.”

“You show far more strength than you realize,” Barca replies after a moment.

“I cannot see that. I could scarcely complete duties today and I feel such fear for what the days ahead might bring.”

Barca’s reply is direct. “And yet you do things that terrify me.”

Pietros has no reply to that. He has never heard Barca speak of being afraid, not ever. He cannot absorb this statement. He debates stammering out the word ‘what?’ but finds he cannot even do that.

And then Barca continues, “A few years before you came to the ludus, something happened. Batiatus had been hosting festivities, each more debauched than the last. We gladiators were paraded before honored guests. I was no stranger to being displayed like exotic pet. But this time guests were permitted to….select gladiators the same way they selected house slaves. One of them wanted to couple with me. Before the Roman pulled me aside, Doctore warned me to comply without protest unless I wanted to spend days inside the pit or find myself lashed into senselessness. He need not have reminded me. I knew I needed to submit.”

Pietros is surprised to hear Barca speak of this. He remains quiet and finds that he is so focused on the words that he has forgotten his pain momentarily. He knows about the incident of which Barca speaks. Over the years, a handful of house slaves and gladiators have whispered of it to Pietros, hinting that Barca was used “in the way of a girl” at this festivity. But this is the first time he has heard of it from Barca himself.

“I could kill inside the arena without blinking eye, but this night was hideous,” Barca continues. “The man pushed me against a column. Pulled on my hair and slapped my ass. Used me against my wishes, with the other gladiators easily able to see all. I could do nothing but bear it and hope it ended soon.”

“I hope that Roman’s cock shrivels up and falls off!” Pietros proclaims. His fury over what happened to Barca eclipses his confusion as to why Barca is sharing this with him. “Would that I could have somehow traded our places. Not that the Roman would have wanted lowly houseboy instead of mighty gladiator. But if I could have had the powers of the gods to trade our places that night, I would have!”

“That is exactly why I tell you this now, Pietros,” Barca says evenly. “An event that disgusted me….that frightened me and that I still think of today….you would have handled without flinching. Absent fear. You are brave. You will be able to handle the pain you are in now and tolerate it until it finds itself gone.”

Pietros truly understands what it is like now to lose one’s capacity for speech. He cannot believe the words he is hearing, and for one moment even wonders if the last herb he took contained something that causes hallucination.

“Gratitude,” Pietros manages at last, his throat dry. “Your words help me.”

He struggles with whether or not to say more. Should he reassure Barca that he enjoys their coupling immensely and would see it resume as soon as he is able? Pietros’ physical state during their time together always leaves little doubt how much he enjoys their lovemaking. And Barca surely understands the difference between when it is forced upon someone and when someone goes willingly, as Pietros always has with him. And yet Pietros does not want to leave it at that either.

“I always welcome your touch,” he says. “You have never hurt me. I would resume our coupling as soon as I am able.”

“I would welcome it too, when your pain is gone,” Barca says simply. “In the meantime, do not let these worries eat away at you. I have coin and can spend as much of it as needed on herbs and to keep Zahur from complaint over his increased workload. Fear not, my love – you shall recover soon enough.”

Pietros smiles. This is the first time Barca has called him “my love”. He simply bids Barca gratitude one more time, and then falls to a peaceful and untroubled sleep.

_**THE END** _

_**Thank you for any feedback and comments!** _


	2. Chapter Two: The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to turn this fic into a series of Barca/Pietros one-shots. Right now my goal is to keep it canon-compliant, though that might change. Each chapter will be a standalone one-shot. 
> 
> Summary for Chapter Two: _For weeks, I have been turning over ideas in my head regarding how Barca and Pietros might have gotten together in canon. We’ll never know the ‘real’ story, but this one rings true to me._
> 
> T/Ws – Coarse language and blatant smut. We are a little light on plot today.

One of the only currencies open to slaves is the telling of stories. No matter which house Pietros has belonged to during his two decades of life, he has always enjoyed the stories told by his fellow slaves. Now that he is new to Batiatus’ ludus, he listens intently to every story offered. Whether the one-armed cook is telling a meandering tale of a long-dead slave who got away with mischief or whether Ashur is spinning a yarn about faraway lands and beautiful maidens, Pietros listens.

Later, he wishes he had more of a tale to tell regarding how he and Barca came to love each other, came to live as husband and wife.

But the truth is scant and simple, and if Pietros is to someday tell the tale, he will need to embellish it somehow. The story is absent villainous men or shocking turns. It is also absent declarations of love, of one man suddenly realizing where his heart stands and declaring his feelings to his beloved as he serenades him or writes poetry.

In truth, it happened like this.

***

_Pietros was purchased by Batiatus with a small group of slaves from a failing ludus. Pietros had been porter to the Doctore of the previous ludus, and as he marched with the others to Batiatus’ house, he was told he would serve as porter again although not the only one. Pietros left behind no loved ones at his previous house, his mother having died of illness years ago, his sweetheart having turned affections towards another._

_Arriving at the new ludus, Pietros steeled his resolve. He would need to learn the lay of the land and learn it quickly, finding ways to navigate treacherous waters._

_His first fear was assuaged quickly. “There will be no rape inside this ludus,” Doctore announced at Pietros’ first meal among the gladiators. Pietros assumed the announcement was for his benefit, seeing as how he was the only new face here._

_Doctore’s announcement didn’t stop the gladiator Gnaeus from leering at Pietros every chance he got and from once pinching his rear, but that was nothing that Pietros couldn’t handle._

***

Barca agrees with this assessment. There is no grand story here, no epic tale of how their two souls met and fell in love.

Barca was, however, open to it and on his end that was all he needed. That, plus a bit of a push from Pietros himself.

Pietros arrived in the ludus almost exactly a year and a half after Auctus’ death. Barca had silently and stoically endured the numbness and sadness until it was like any injury sustained in battle or in arena – painful but something that could be ignored until one day it caused grief no more. When Pietros arrived, Barca had a strong position within the ludus and a close friend in Crixus – and he was lonely and ready for a lover. For the Carthaginian, it was as simple as that. It was time to take another to bed, to gravitate to the warmth of another human in this cold world. Auctus had brought him happiness, and before that Cyprian had done the same. Perhaps taking the risk of seeking a third would be worth it.

***

Pietros makes the first blatant move.

It follows a week or two of glances, of the accidental brushing of shoulders in the dining area, of a hand holding on a moment too long when passing a wooden practice sword. And there are incidents like the time Barca intuits something and turns around to find Pietros’ bold eyes upon him. Or the time Gnaeus openly ogles Pietros, and Barca places his imposing frame between the two men, causing Gnaeus to turtle his head down into his shoulders. And then there are the brief moments when Pietros asks questions - about Barca’s birds, about his triumphs in the arena – and Barca happily answers.

When the fateful evening arrives, the two men are inside the ludus’ bathing area. Pietros is tending to Barca with his usual care and diligence. A slave who accidentally nicks a gladiator while shaving him would face stern punishment; fortunately Pietros has always been gifted with steady hands, even when he is excited. Even when he has something planned. And so as he works this evening, he is also clearly dawdling, waiting for the bathing area to empty out.

And then, at last, Pietros speaks. “I have bathed, shaved, and oiled you. Have you any other needs that require tending?” His tone is unmistakable.

“Such as…?” Barca asks, one corner of his mouth turned upwards and his eyes brilliant.

“Carnal needs,” Pietros states.

“If you are willing then I would be most eager to have them tended to.”

“I stand both willing and eager.”

***

Barca carries Pietros to his cell, and he fucks the way Pietros expected. He lays the younger man down and, just as he does in the arena, gives no quarter. He covers Pietros’ lips and body with kisses, touches, licks, and even a few gentle bites. He is fast but thorough, efficient but passionate. One hand will perhaps stroke Pietros’ chest as mouth nuzzles Pietros’ thighs. Or he will press lips against Pietros’ lips, as hips grind against Pietros in a way that causes cock to harden even more.

Barca grunts every now and then in apparent enjoyment of his conquest over Pietros. Pietros is a bit surprised when Barca moves down and licks his cock, and he enjoys it, but Barca does not stay with it for too long. Perhaps just long enough to see it fully erect, to gain more confirmation that his efforts are appreciated.

Barca then deftly turns Pietros over onto his belly. This Pietros had expected. For just a moment or two, the warmth of Barca’s body is absent; Pietros turns his head and sees Barca reach for a flask. Oil, obviously. Moving with the grace of a cat, Barca is back in an instant. Pietros shifts just a bit, tilting his hips and ass upwards, his head downwards. He spreads his legs slightly. He has done this before and enjoyed it. Barca is not stingy with the oil; in fact the salve he is applying feels thicker than what has been used on Pietros before.

“Do you want a finger first?” Barca asks quietly.

“Yes. Gratitude. That will help prepare me.”

Again, Barca is generous with the salve. Pietros has observed his hands and fingers many times before, just as he has observed every inch of his body. The finger is thick. It is patient too. Barca does not rush when he asks, “Second finger or should we try cock now?”

Pietros appreciates being asked. Once before he was nearly torn apart by a man who didn’t ask, didn’t slow down.

“Cock. Just slowly, please.”

Barca grunts in response and then does as Pietros says. He presses the tip against his opening and waits.

“You didn’t want me to suck your cock first?” Pietros asks, turning his head to look at Barca kneeling behind him. He is sincerely curious, though he’s also strategic in asking. He likes the pressing against his opening and needs the time for the muscles to relax fully.

“If you like my fucking enough, perhaps next time then,” Barca answers straightforwardly. “But I have desired your ass.”

“Is it adorable?”

“It excites my blood. You excite my blood. And yes, I would say that you are adorable as well.” Barca pauses. “Are you ready, Pietros?”

“I am ready. Just move forward slowly. The others who have had me have not been so well-blessed in terms of length and girth as you.”

Barca chuckles, sounding pleased. He does as Pietros asks.

Pietros soon is moaning a bit and breathing heavily. He enjoys all of it. The way Barca fills him and teases at that hard to reach spot deep inside, the spot which brings him joy. The feel of Barca’s hands on his hips. Even just being able to reach back and touch a hand to Barca though it does not do more than graze his stomach.

“You don’t want to stroke cock while I fuck you?” Barca asks.

“No,” Pietros manages. “I prefer to just enjoy this now, and stroke myself afterwards.”

“Mmmmm….so you do enjoy my fucking?”

“I enjoy it. Beast of Carthage,” Pietros adds, teasingly.

Pietros speaks the truth. He enjoys the sensations, enjoys the way Barca moves faster and faster, enjoys Barca’s unabashed grunting. He likes when Barca moves one hand to roam around his back and touch his hair, though Barca seems to want his hands back on Pietros’ hips so he can thrust yet faster. His movements gradually become frenzied and he grips Pietros like iron. Pietros then feels him release inside, and is certain that half of the ludus can hear Barca’s cries.

“Here. Allow me,” Barca says, catching his breath and once again deftly turning Pietros over as if he is light as a feather. He reaches to kiss Pietros’ mouth, and then brings hand to cock and pumps it. Barca’s hand is firm, oiled, and unrelenting. At first, Pietros looks at the man as Barca strokes him but soon finds he cannot, the building orgasm is too intense for eye contact. He looks away as he dampens Barca’s fist with his release.

Now that both men are satiated, Pietros assumes Barca will want his bed and his cell back. And he is correct. After a brief kiss, Pietros departs for his usual sleeping spot: a mat on the floor of the dinning area.

***

The love comes gradually. It does not manifest itself suddenly the way the carnal aspect did during that one encounter when Pietros asked for what he wanted.

Instead the love saunters in slowly, unremarkably. It is signaled by things such as the two men falling asleep together, Pietros no longer leaving the cell when they are done having sex. Pietros’ few belongings making their way to the shelves inside Barca’s room. Crixus one day referring to “Barca and Pietros’ cell”. Pietros tending to the birds on his own, neither man needing to ask. Barca returning from his trips to the city with gifts, first an earring then a necklace, then a bracelet, then a second bracelet, then an arm cuff, and then a ring. Comments from other gladiators such as “I thought Barca didn’t want to get attached again.”

Pietros knows where Barca’s heart stands for certain one morning when he wakes to the sounds of strange whisperings and murmurings. Although still within the mist that separates the dream world from the real world, Pietros becomes dimly aware that he has heard such murmurings before.

“D-did you say something?” he asks Barca, as he reaches one hand to rub his sleepy eyes.

Barca waits a second or two before replying. “A prayer. My people recite it over their loved ones each morning. For protection.”

“Gratitude,” Pietros manages. This is the first time Barca has verbalized his love, and Pietros takes a moment to absorb it. And to realize how deeply he himself has fallen in love.

“Your adornments - your necklace and arm cuff and all the others,” Barca continues. “They have all been blessed by an old priest in town, one who knows my people’s ways. They will protect you as well.”

“Again, gratitude Barca…but I am not the one who has to fight in arena,” Pietros smiles.

“Do not give worry to that,” Barca replies. He affectionately tousles Pietros’ hair, and the day begins.

THE END

Please let me know what you think!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read another fic where Barca sang a prayer of protection over Pietros every morning. I apologize to the other writer for borrowing their idea, and I hope they see this as a loving tribute to their work. The idea is so perfect that I wanted to see it used once more!


	3. Chapter Three: The Truth

**Chapter Three: The Truth**

Capua’s weather truly is miserable. The endless heat, the dust, the dryness which lodges itself in your throat, the thirst which never is quite slaked.

In Carthage, Barca had lived through hot and humid summers, but there had been variation too. Without fail each year a long winter had arrived, replete with cold, windy weather. Here in Capua, the weather never changes. There is just the glare of the sand and sun, the relentless heat.

With the punishing heat as a constant backdrop, Barca lately has been enjoying only one thing in life. Pietros. Ever since the young man had propositioned him that evening inside the bath, the two have been inseparable. They have cuddled together at meals, despite the heat. They have fallen asleep together inside Barca’s cell, a cell which clearly belongs as much to Pietros as it does Barca now. They even feed and tend to Barca’s birds together, and Barca finds that his insides do strange things as he watches Pietros coo at and pet the birds.

And, oh yes, the sex. Despite Capua’s heat, both men are clearly enjoying their nights together. Barca himself finds that he now enjoys sex more than he ever has. Is it because Pietros so openly worships him, in a way that neither Cyprian nor Auctus ever did? Or is it the way that Pietros is so appreciative of even the smallest things, like a kiss on the mouth or words whispered in his ear during the act? Barca has even found that he enjoys taking Pietros’ cock inside his mouth. He never liked performing that on other men, didn’t enjoy the fluids that leaked from the tip or the feel of the cock inside his mouth or down his throat. But Pietros seems to be in some sort of divine agony every time he does it, so much so that Barca would have to admit he looks forward to it now just for Pietros’ reactions. Barca will never let Pietros fuck him but he does occasionally wonder at what he would find if he did ever allow it….the look on Pietros’ face and the sounds he would make might almost be worth it. Almost.

On this particular day at the ludus, Barca does not want to train. He is tired, he is hot, and the old injury to his midsection is pulsing with a red rage. He wants to instead be lying in bed with Pietros, resting and waiting for the sun to go down so they can suck and fuck with abandon.

Barca generally admires Doctore, but the man baffles him now. It is clear to anyone and everyone that Crixus stands the only gladiator higher ranked than Barca; the Beast of Carthage clearly can best anyone else in this ludus. So why does Doctore push him as if he is but a new recruit? Can he not see that Barca deserves rest, deserves just one day at a simple and easy pace?

Doctore cracks his whip again and bellows Barca’s name.

“Barca! This is the last time I will say it. Apply yourself or find my whip put to good use!”

It is true – Barca has been giving less than half of his usual effort for the past few hours. Both working the palus and sparring against Hamilcar, Barca has only been going through the motions.

“Yes, Doctore,” Barca replies. Even Barca’s tone is more dull, less crisp and deferential than usual. His throat parched, Barca cares not if Doctore decides to apply the whip. He has been beaten and whipped before, and the fact that he can take it all without even a sound is a point of pride. The other gladiators have openly marveled at the way he can handle any punishment without even the slightest hint of pain. Gannicus once told Barca, ‘You can take pummeling most harsh and yet appear as if a man enjoying a simple sunset.’ It is a complement Barca has always savored.

Barca does not change his behavior. He continues to go through the motions as he and Hamilcar spar.

When Barca deems they have done enough, he bends over and takes a breath before sauntering towards the water barrel. Pietros is at his side, handing him a cup. And then Barca lingers as he drinks, just looking at Pietros. He watches Pietros smile and then pick up one of the wooden swords, pretending to strike at an imaginary opponent. Barca’s eyes drink in the sight. Pietros is actually not bad with the sword – although clearly playacting, he has the form down and he can move quickly. He does keep turning his head to meet Barca’s gaze, and Barca cares not if the entire ludus sees his adoration for the young man. Crixus teased Barca the other day about how obvious his feelings are.

A few more hours until dinnertime, Barca guesses….a few more hours until he can have Pietros in his arms. He continues to watch the young man.

“Barca!” As Doctore bellows the name, he cracks the whip. “I am finished with your defiance today!”

“Apologies, Doctore,” Barca says, though again his tone is less than conciliatory. “I will finish water and resume.”

“No. You will see wrists bound and whip applied. As the entire ludus watches,” Doctore says, striding towards Barca. “Gladiators! Attend!”

The ludus has gone quiet and heads are turning. The brothers follow the order and assemble near Doctore. It is not rare for Doctore’s whip to strike a gladiator during training, but it is rare for training to grind to a halt as a gladiator’s wrists are bound against wood in preparation for a formal brutalizing.

“As you wish, Doctore,” Barca says, tossing his cup to the ground and holding his arms out. He meets Doctore’s eyes. “Please proceed.”

“I shall then.” Doctore turns his head. “Crixus! Duratius! Bind **Pietros** to the wooden stakes.”

“P-Pietros?” Barca stutters. Crixus also simultaneously stammers out the same name in the same questioning fashion as Barca.

“Pietros,” Doctore confirms.

His eyes flashing and his mouth open, Barca exchanges a brief glance at his lover. Pietros mirrors his stunned look. Barca then turns his gaze back upon his trainer. “Doctore. Apologies. I have been defiant today. I will behave and give you no more grief.”

“And that you will,” Doctore answers, signaling for Crixus and Duratius to proceed.

Vaguely Barca hears Crixus mutter the word ‘apologies’ in his direction. He stands mute, watching his brothers bind Pietros’ wrists to the wood. His insides lurch and his brow dampens as he sees Pietros’ wrists tied, his arms in the air. The old injury to Barca’s midsection is suddenly throbbing.

And then Barca decides to act. He takes two steps closer to Doctore. “Doctore. I beg your forgiveness. I-I will never defy you again. I swear it. I swear it on every god.” As he speaks, Barca drops to his knees before Doctore. Humiliating himself like this in front of his brothers would have been unthinkable, but Barca cannot bear for this to go on. If there is even a chance that this might turn Doctore’s heart, he will try it.

Doctore, however, pays him no mind. He holds out one hand to silence Barca without even turning his head in Barca’s direction. He then takes a few steps so he stands behind Pietros.

Barca looks up, his knees still upon the sand, and sees Doctore whisper something to Pietros. And then he begins.

One lash of the whip. Pietros instinctively cries out. He is unused to this, Barca knows. Pietros’ skin has always been remarkably unmarred for a slave.

A second lash. Pietros screams again. Still kneeling, Barca forces himself to look at his lover. Though he would rather bow his head and look only upon the sand, Barca looks up. Pietros’ eyes are squeezed shut, his face flushed, his teeth gritted.

“One more,” Doctore says, and then strikes Pietros a third time, causing Pietros to howl again. With that, Doctore signals for Crixus and Duratius to untie Pietros.

Doctore then takes a few steps towards Barca. “Have you learned your lesson, Beast of Carthage?”

It would be redundant to say that Barca hates being a slave. He despises the constant humiliations, the helplessness, the utter lack of choice or agency. The inability to protect a loved one.

“I have learned it, Doctore,” Barca says, his head bowed in submission. “I shall not defy you again.”

“Good. Spar with Crixus when he is returned.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Barca sees Crixus assist Pietros inside. He hopes he is taking him to Medicus.

***

At long last it is time for the evening meal, and Doctore releases the gladiators from their work for the day. Barca rushes first to Medicus’ room and, upon finding it empty, rushes towards his cell. Pietros is lying facedown upon the bed. He turns his head when Barca enters the cell.

Barca squats by the bed and gingerly places a hand upon the back of Pietros’ head.

“My apologies. You should not have had to suffer for my insolence,” Barca says.

His heart is heavy as he speaks the words. He feels the fool. He should have known better, should have expected that neither Doctore’s eyes nor his mind ever miss anything. Doctore knows – as does every man here – Barca’s weakness.

“In the arena, I anticipate opponent’s next move,” Barca continues, stroking Pietros’ head. “Here I failed to do so. I never expected that you would suffer for my bad performance today.”

“Think nothing of it,” Pietros answers. He slowly turns from his stomach onto his side. He exhales and grits his teeth at the simple shift in position. “You did not know what Doctore would do.”

Barca had not really expected Pietros to be angry, so his lover’s reaction does not surprise him. Pietros sounds as steady and kind as always. Barca’s insides, however, lurch once more with the guilt.

“Gratitude for your understanding,” Barca says. He reaches forward and gently kisses Pietros’ forehead. “Shall I bring you something? Food? Salve for your wounds?”

“Crixus already had Medicus put something on it. I don’t think I can eat right now.”

Barca is silent for a moment. “Still, you should eat when you can. You need it for strength. Allow me to bring you our rations.”

Pietros smiles. “If you would like. It is not as though I’ve never been disciplined before. I’ve taken many a beating from former dominus.” He then adds, “This was my first whipping though. But there is no need for you to fuss over me.”

“You are strong,” Barca says firmly. “Though perhaps…I could be permitted to fuss over you a little.”

“Perhaps. I like that you were defiant today,” Pietros whispers, a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes. “I did not favor the result, but I favored your boldness. He was pushing everyone too hard.” He pauses, and then adds, “And I try to imagine how difficult this is for you.” He looks down and then meets Barca’s eyes again. “Life as a slave. A powerful gladiator, yes, but still slave. I was born into it so I am used to it. But this must be hard for you, given your origins.”

“Ah yes. My origins. Son of a chieftain.” Barca leans closer to Pietros and whispers back at him, mirroring Pietros’ conspiratorial tone from a moment ago. “If I may, I would share secret with you.”

Perhaps this will help distract Pietros from the pain, Barca muses. He owes him that. He owes him anything that might help.

“Secret?” Pietros whispers back, raising his head a bit. “Please do tell.”

“I am no chieftain’s son,” Barca whispers. “Mago was not my father.” He tilts his head and adds, “My father was one of his advisors. I believe he would even have called him friend. But still, I do not stand chieftain’s son.” He exhales and shakes his head. “Not that it matters today. You and I are both mere slaves now.” He holds up a finger and says, “Do not reveal this to anyone though. Not even Crixus knows.”

Pietros’ eyes widen. “The secret is safe with me.” He smiles and adds, “You stand Beast of Carthage in the arena, whatever your origins are.”

“Beast of Carthage I may be, but trust me I have learned bitter lesson today. I will be more humble in Doctore’s ludus, lest you suffer again because of my pride.”

Pietros indicates that he wants to be kissed. He leans forward and slightly puckers his lips. Barca softly presses his lips against Pietros’. His heart hammers a bit, relieved and happy that the younger man is not angry with him and that he seems to be coping with his wounds.

“I will be back with our dinner,” he then says, rising to his feet.

As Barca walks towards the dinning area, he thinks. He has spent all of his days since Auctus died saving his winnings and laying wagers in pursuit of someday purchasing his freedom. He has faltered a bit recently, spending coin on gifts for Pietros instead of saving it, but despite that he is close to what has to be enough to purchase his own freedom.

And, he realizes as his heart sinks, it will not be enough. If he purchases his own freedom, he won’t see Pietros again. Sure, he could easily find another young man but it wouldn’t be this young man.

 _So I am trapped,_ Barca realizes. _Trapped by my attachment to Pietros. Doctore and Batiatus and anyone else can use it any time to bend me to their will. And I am trapped by the coin needed to purchase freedom for two men instead of one._

In the dining area, Barca wordlessly procures two bowls filled with food, and turns back towards the hallway leading to their cells.

“How is the boy?” Crixus, suddenly at his side, asks.

Barca grunts in reply, his face impassive. It is time to cease flaunting his weakness in front of the entire ludus.

Crixus glances down at both bowls held by Barca. “Good of you to bring dinner to him. To take care of him.”

Barca twists his lips into a half-smile. “I have to keep him alive.” He forces a shrug. “He takes my cock. If he faints from his injuries then my cock doesn’t get sucked.”

Crixus briefly furrows his brow and opens his mouth as if to say something, but doesn’t. He instead slaps Barca on the arm and leaves him to continue back towards his cell.

 _That is the way,_ Barca tells himself as he walks. _I shall return to the numbness that engulfed me after Cyprian and Auctus died. To the heartlessness of Mago’s ways. And I shall cease acting like a love-struck girl. Easy._

Barca reaches his cell, and his resolve instantly crumbles when he sees Pietros. He’s uncertain if it’s the simple gratitude on Pietros’ face or the way his eyes just light up when he looks at Barca. It is as if there is an invisible force that Pietros generates. As if he has a whip like the one belonging to Doctore and it is wrapped around Barca’s heart.

“Gratitude, Barca,” Pietros says, slowly moving into a sitting position. “I think the salve is starting to take effect. I feel better.”

Barca wants to make a cutting remark. Something lewd such as ‘Good. That means you can stand up and bend over.’ But the words don’t assemble. He hands Pietros one of the bowls and watches him take the spoon.

_I am not son of chieftain. I am not heartless or emotionless. I am nothing but a love-struck man who happens to be a good fighter, one whose behavior causes my lover to be whipped. One who now needs to save or win double the amount of coin I currently possess._

He watches Pietros eat.

_And the entire ludus can see it. They can see what a fool I truly am._

He sighs and takes a bite of his own meal. And then he feels Pietros gently touch his knee.

“Think no more of it,” Pietros says. “All will be well.”

Barca nods and starts on his own food. Perhaps Pietros is right. Perhaps - despite everything – all will be well.

THE END

_Notes:_

_That bit I put in there about Pietros holding a sword and playacting at fighting….it actually comes from an episode itself. I went back and re-watched Season 1, paying very close attention to Pietros and Barca. I believe it is episode 3 which contains a few shots of Pietros holding a sword and fighting an imaginary opponent in the background. (There are some other great background moments that you can find in a re-watch. In episode 2, Pietros spoon-feeds Barca. Spoon-feeds him! And in episode 3, Pietros is massaging – not just shaving – Barca. All of these are split-second shots that you miss if you blink at the wrong moment)._

_Thank you for any comments!_


	4. Chapter Four: Recruits

_T/W: Reference to past sexual abuse_

* * *

“You recoil from my touch. I stand surprised.”

Pietros takes a moment to consider his response to Barca’s words. He has never before shrank from his lover’s touch, and Barca knows it. Pietros in fact is often the one to initiate their contact, their kissing, their sex. Just as Barca misses nothing in the arena, he is not about to overlook Pietros’ cold behavior tonight either.

Nor will he settle for the topic ignored.

“Find tongue and speak,” Barca continues, though his gentle tone stands in contrast to the blunt words themselves. “I will not abide lover who forbids touch without explanation.”

Pietros takes a breath. The two men are alone inside their cell, sitting side by side upon the bed. As usual during the months they have been lovers, this is their only time together absent unwanted company: it is evening, after gladiators have seen to their dinner and bathing. Many can already be heard snoring from their nearby cells.

“I stand uncomfortable with treatment of new recruits,” Pietros answers, knowing that he must indeed give voice to his concerns. His stomach is in knots, the stew he forced down at dinner feeling as if it sloshes around inside his belly. Still somewhat new to being Barca’s lover, he has never criticized him before.

Barca places a hand upon Pietros’ knee. “I was treated much the same years ago when I began here,” he answers, taking a breath. He then turns to look at Pietros. “You have been part of this ludus for several months now. You know the men here. Harsh, brutish men. Warriors, soldiers, convicts. They can bear whatever teasing I dole out.”

Pietros simply listens though he does not turn his head to meet Barca’s gaze.

Barca continues. “They must learn to respect and fear me. It is better for you as well, since they know you as my boy and thus will know they cannot touch you either.” His voice is rich and warm as he touches a hand to Pietros’ chin. “You are so delicate for this world.”

Pietros swallows and keeps his eyes away from Barca’s as he replies. “You do not do this solely on my account. You treated new recruits thusly before I ever arrived here, as Crixus tells me.”

Barca drops his hand and turns away.

“Before you came to house of Batiatus, your dominus treated you kindly. You arrived here unprepared and naïve,” Barca speaks the words as fact, not question because he and Pietros have spoken of it before. Pietros’ previous owner was a gentle old man who never hit and rarely yelled. Pietros had not been fortunate enough, however, to escape being used in a sexual manner. Pietros mentioned the encounters to a few other slaves who would invariably laugh and tell him how fortunate he was. Four months ago the old man died, and Pietros was purchased by Batiatus. And so Barca became his first lover, the gladiator’s warm hands and loving touch keeping him safe, secure, and fulfilled.

“I shall not change my behavior, Pietros,” Barca continues as Pietros remains quiet. “It is unfortunate that we do not view this with the same set of eyes - but do not believe that your thoughts in this matter will change me.” Although Barca’s voice is not cruel, the words come out with a firm clacking sound like reeds slapping against each other in the wind.

Pietros nods, and again feels utterly out of sorts given that he has never before voiced disagreement with Barca. In the months they have been together, Barca has never once treated him cruelly. The gladiator’s aggression on the training grounds has always stood in clear contrast to his refinement upon the bed. But where do things stand right now? This cell belongs Barca, and Pietros has just refused his touches and disagreed with him. Should he offer to leave the cell? Before becoming Barca’s lover, Pietros slept upon a mat outside the dinning area. Does he retreat there now? Is Barca about to order him to leave for the night?

Fortunately Pietros is saved from further pondering.

“Come,” Barca says, patting the bed. “I understand you are displeased and do not welcome touch tonight. Then let us fall to sleep. The day has been long.”

Relieved, Pietros assumes his usual position, upon his side with his back to Barca’s front. Soon Pietros recognizes the gladiator’s breathing taking on its steady pace, indicating that he is slumbering. Barca always has been able to sleep when it’s time no matter what the day’s events have wrought.

He is not able to follow Barca to slumber, however.

Pietros knows that from one vantage point, their brief conversation did not go badly. He conveyed what he needed to convey, and Barca did not yell or display anger in reaction. Pietros has seen many a man hit or shove his lover upon being defied, even for a mere disagreement.

Nor, however, did Barca give even an inch. He is not about to change the way he treats new recruits, not now and probably not ever. Pietros understands that he can continue to voice displeasure if he wishes to, but he recognizes that there may be no result. Pietros can almost hear his mother laughing at the notion that it is possible to change a man.

He recalls more of his mother’s words. She always admonished him that he was too tender for this world.

The night plods on and Pietros ponders his options. He loves Barca. Perhaps, he wonders, it is nothing more than plain lust. But he does not think so. He feels gratitude for the protection Barca provides, yes, but still Pietros feels that it is love at its core and not just gratitude or just erotic desire. Thus he cannot and will not make the decision to cease being the gladiator’s lover. True, there are practical considerations to the decision – if he were to lose Barca’s protection then another man would claim him. Probably that dog Gnaeus. Pietros almost snorts. He cannot imagine even holding a conversation with Gnaeus, let alone communicating disagreement, let alone allowing the man to touch him. Gnaeus’ hands upon his body would make Pietros long for the days of his old dominus.

If neither changing Barca nor breaking away from him are options, then Pietros realizes he is left with only one other. Acceptance. He must accept that he dislikes how Barca treats new recruits and he must stand to the side and watch it, wincing.

Pietros sighs. _Accept, accept, accept. That is all we slaves ever do. We accept orders and beatings and hunger and thirst and 18 hours of work every day and the violation of our bodies and any new form of torture our owners can create._

_Barca is an imperfect man for an imperfect world. I must accept that too._

Pietros at last drifts off to sleep, and he awakens as he habitually does when the black night sky begins to soften and give way to blue. As he shifts his weight slightly, he realizes that Barca is awake.

“I shrank from your touch yesterday,” Pietros whispers. “But if you would have it so this morning then I would share touch…and kiss, and all that follows.”

“I would,” Barca answers.

Smoothly, like a cat, Pietros turns around to face Barca. He pulls his lover close and kisses him.

  
THE END

_Thank you for any feedback_


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